Running Away From Home

It goes without saying that someone who refers to herself as a maniac mum doesn't consider herself to be the best mother in the world. But this week I was given notice that I was a really really bad one.

At seven pm on Wednesday night, when her big sisters were out at Brownies and it was actually time for bed, no 3 announced that I had given her no choice: she was running away from home. My crime? Turning the tv off and telling her it was bedtime. The resulting tantrum ended in her running upstairs and going to her cupboard and packing a suitcase.

This isn't the first time one of my children has tried to run away (you see? I am a really bad mother). No2 has also had a go, for reasons which escape me now. She too, packed a suitcase and headed off down the stairs with it. On that occasion I tried to bluff it out, by saying ok, off you go. Unfortunately no2 double bluffed me and promptly opened the front door and headed out of it. At which point I had to drag her back inside, and lock the top bolt.

With this in mind, and considerate of the fact that it was after dark, I decided the best option this time was to try and keep no3 in her bedroom. I found her sobbing dramatically as she packed, wailing, "I don't really know if I should do this, but I have to."

"But where are you going to go?" I asked.
"I don't know," she hiccuped, "but I can't stay here."

No clearly not. Why would you stay with a demon mother who turns televisions off willy nilly. There must be some other nirvana where mums do what they are supposed to and let children stay up all night, watching tv and eating junk food. Shame no3 got lumbered with me...

She then hit something of a dilemma. She had packed so many of her clothes, she couldn't fit her toys in the suitcase. With a look of grim determination, she got out a back pack and promptly shoved her cuddlies in it. If she was going to be cast out by her evil mother into an unyieldingly cruel world, at least she would have something to snuggle up to.

"It'll be dark outside," I pointed out.
"I know," another hiccuping sob, and a set determined look. She then wanted to know if she could take a sleeping bag. And when it was pointed out to her she couldn't carry it all, some of her resolve started to crumble.

By now her sisters were back from Brownies, and no 2 was taking a sisterly, Been There Done That interest in proceedings.

"You'll need money," she says."You'll have to take five pounds from Mum's purse." Great a kleptomaniac in the house as well as a runaway. My bad mother points are mounting up here.

I pointed out that this was stealing.
"Is it?" no2, was interested to discover this, as clearly because it is me, she thinks I owe her.
Er, yes. Just because it's your mum, you still shouldn't take money out of her purse.

Spouse took this moment to come home, at which no 3 went into a blind panic. If I am a bad mother, apparently the thought of her dad discovering her trying to runaway from home is even more terrifying then having to leave your rotten mum in the first place.

She started flinging clothes back in a drawer, in between throwing herself into my arms sobbing. "I think this is a bad idea."
"I do, too," I say. "Here, let me help you."

Phew, crisis averted, Bad Mummy clearly not as scary as Nasty Daddy. For once my personal maternalometer rating seems higher then normal...

A November to Remember
by Taryn Mckeiver

"Every medical student should have a copy of this book" Lynn Faulds Wood

I lived my life over and over again on my raft. I felt safe, on my raft, completely safe. In my dreams I could steal myself away from cancer and all of my fears, I wasn't yet ready to face them...

Every so often a book comes along that makes you really sit up and take notice. A November to Remember, is such a book.

At the age of thirty, happily married with five young children, life couldn't have looked better for Taryn McKeiver.

Until the night she was rushed into hospital, in excruciating pain, and her world collapsed.

Taryn had bowel cancer - the most taboo of all cancers. And over the next two years she was to embark on the most painful and heartbreaking journey you can imagine.

With the support of her husband, Nick, Taryn was determined she wouldn't be beaten, as she clawed her way back to a life she thought lost to her forever.

Told with devastating honesty, and wry humour, A November to Remember is the hugely inspirational story of the courage and determination of an extraordinary woman battling to survive...

Published on 30 March 2006 by
Burrow Publishing,
PO Box 141,
Ashtead,
Surrey KT21 9AN

ISBN 0-9552495-0-3
Trade Paperback
Price£9.99 $17.99 e14.99
216 x 138mm
256pp

Orders via: Bertrams, Gardners, Amazon
Or visit: www.anovembertoremember.co.uk>
for further information contact: sales@anovembertoremember.co.uk

A November to Remember

Generally the tone of this blog is lighthearted and not meant to be taken seriously. But in my day job as well as fending for my offspring I also edit books.

I have recently edited a book which is probably the most important book I have ever worked on.

It is called A November to Remember by my friend Taryn Mckeiver and is about her battle with the most taboo of all cancers - bowel cancer. We are self publishing it and hope to have copies by the end of this month. The book has a foreword by Lynn Faulds Wood who says this book will change the way people think about bowel cancer. And Taryn is donating part of the profits to Lynns Bowel Cancer Campaign.

In the meantime Taryn has just published a website at: www.anovembertoremember.co.uk">you can visit which is an incredibly honest assessment of how she has dealt with the horrific hand Fate dealt her.

It is by no means all gloom and doom either, as Taryn has me crying one minute and laughing another.

She is an amazing person, and this is an amazing book. It is both her and my wish that the book can raise awareness of this dreadful disease, and hopefully save lives.

If you have visited my blog, please take time out to visit Taryn's website too, whether or not you know anyone who has bowel cancer/have suffered from it yourself. It is not an exaggeration to say the information you will find there may one day save your life.

Wetting the Baby's Head

It has long struck me as completely unfair that when a baby is born, the person who has done all the work, is totally knackered and is now going to be up half the night gets left out of the party, while everyone else has a ball.

When no 1 was born nearly ten years ago, we were still very much in a babyless/be wild mindset, and so were most of our friends. Spouse did get to the pub the day she came, when frankly I was so out of it I couldn't have cared less, but hadn't really had a proper celebration. He more then made up for it the night before I came home which happened to be a Friday. It therefore seemed entirely incumbent upon him to invite a few mates to come back after pub closing and have a drink. My mother was coming in the morning, and Spouse had promised her he would be up and the house tidy. As if.

Everyone was from the sounds of it in very high spirits, (probably due to the volume of high spirits they had consumed) and much fun was had by all. In the course of said fun a sofa got broken, much alcohol got spilt and I dread to think what state the lounge was in by the time Spouse had shoved the funsters out of the door. Needless to say he wasn't up when my mother returned, and when I rang to politely enquire why he hadn't pitched up at the hospital as promised, it was to discover that he had only just crawled out of his pit. My miraculous mother then blitzed the house, so when I returned with baby in tow, all was calm and rational. I meanwhile was left to reflect that while he was having fun, I was breastfeeding. A somewhat less then reasonable exchange I felt...

Next time around the baby was born after pub closing time (good move, Mummy), and I got home the next day, so wetting the baby's head was a somewhat more sober affair.

With no 3 it is all such a blur I can't quite remember what happened, although I seem to remember sending Spouse to the pub at about 9pm the night before she came, on the basis that I had to be there, he didn't, and the wretched baby was taking so long to come he at least may as well enjoy himself. So the baby's head was wet even before it was born...

No 4 however, was a different story, being as she came on the same day as our pyrotechnic builder's mate's son. He was born somewhat earlier in the day, and we heard about it from the midwife, who was all agog about the behaviour of one of the dads who'd gone out to the pub in the middle of the labour. It wasn't our mate? we asked. Yes it was, how on earth did we know? Oooh, I don't know, lucky guess, perhaps?

Given that it is a fairly rare occurrence to be able to go and celebrate the birth of your fourth daughter, and even rarer occurrence to do it with a mate who is also celebrating the birth of his son, it seemed only right and proper to send Spouse straight from the hospital to the pub. The midwife's eyes nearly went through the ceiling when I suggested if the baby came before ten Spouse would still have time to get there. As it happened she arrived at 10.20, so after hobbling to the shower, I sent him on his way, as quickly as I could. He had to ring up to order his pints, but get there he did, and departed somewhat later, and less soberly then when he entered.

With each baby, by the time I wasn't breastfeeding/was feeling like a drink/getting some sleep, the moments of euphoria had all but departed, so I have always felt slightly cheated that I never really got to raise a glass properly to my offspring's arrival.

So it was with great joy that I was able to do so for the arrival of my great niece, who came into the world earlier this week.

Spouse and I went to the hospital to see her, both enjoying the moment of it not being us this time... and were greeted with the rather unusual sight of my bil cradling his new grandaughter, looking more then slightly bemused. Neither Spouse or bil are particularly baby-orientated but it was highly amusing to watch some latent caveman protective tendency coming out in them, as they seemed to be more besotted then we girlies were. (Mind you, we girlies know what it's all about and they really really don't).

After the baby was duly admired, we went home to pick up the big ones from Brownies and report back to mil on the beauty of her new great-grandchild. And then it was down to the serious stuff, and we all raised a glass or two (or three) to welcome the new arrival, which was all fine and dandy, but probably not the best move in the middle of the week.

It was only when I woke up late the next morning with a very sore head, and in a rush to get the offspring to school, that I finally came to realise that perhaps this wetting the baby's head thing isn't all it's cracked up to be...


For Ruth and Imogen, with lovexxx

Magical Leek Soup

No I haven't gone into Narnia, but I have decided to do something about my weight. Given that it is now four years since the last of my offspring arrived, I no longer have an excuse as to why I am a stone heavier then I was ten years ago before I set off on this mad mother thing.

I'm not a big fan of diets, as I really think they are a no brainer, but over the last couple of years I have tried the Carol Vorderman detox diet, which I was crap at as I got bored. Last summer I also bought a GI diet book - having read at the end of my marathon training last year that Steve Redgrave followed a GI diet when training for the Olympics. What's good enough for Steve... isn't really good enough for me as I get so fed up following diet plans, and never have the right ingredients in.

So the other week when I was in Wottakers purchasing last minute pressies for the old man for his birthday (actually very last minute, I am ashamed to say the tables have turned and I was actually out on his birthday buying him presents, oh dear) and there was a 3 for 2 offer and I was scrabbling for a third book, a title just leapt off the bookshelves begging to be bought. It was called French Women Don't Get Fat, and I had read about it somewhere. The author apparently advocates chocolate, champagne and sex as part of a sensible diet and way of keeping thin. Hmm, sounds like my kind of diet, that...

Actually, what it appears to amount to is a French version of A Little Bit Of What You Fancy Does You Good and Everything in Moderation - two precepts with which I was brought up, which have rather gone out of the window of late. I do agree with her wholeheartedly about cooking proper food every day, eating fresh when possible and cutting down portion sizes, but helas, am unlikely to find a wonderful vegetable market outside my door, so can't buy fresh veg every day. I also can't see myself discussing ad infinitum the relative merits of different veg as she also suggests, but I'm with her In Principle.

Which is how I found myself embarking on a detox programme to end all detoxes. She advises reprogramming your brain to do something called recasting where you chuck out all the offenders in your daily diet (in my case the chocolate crap that I end up buying for the kids, and my very bad habit of finishing what they don't). Prior to recasting you have a "tough weekend" where you eat nothing but leek soup - or actually you drink the water leeks are cooked in every two to three hours and when it is meal time you eat leeks in olive oil. She assures me this will be so tasty it won't feel tough at all. Now I like leeks as much as the next person, and we have just celebrated St David's Day, so what the hell, I thought I'd give it ago. I am already an alcohol free zone as I foolishly decided that I would give it up for Lent in a desperate attempt to reduce my intake, so in for a penny in for a pound...

Sat started with the usual mayhem of ballet runs et al - made more complicated now as no 3 has just done a ballet exam and her lesson is at 9 am, no 1 is doing extra tuition (because as the appallingly pushy parents we are we are hoping she sits an exam for a rather good local school in the autumn - she otoh wishes to go the more local one with all her friends - guilty mum, qui moi?), so also does that at 9am. No 2 had her first reconciliation rehearsal at 11.15, and no 1 was back at the Fame School for 1.30. So I was out and about most of the morning. I therefore had time to force one mug of leek juice down my unyielding lips, because despite the author's assertions it really was pretty foul, before I had to leave. I managed, nobly to resist the siren calls of tea and toast at the local cafe, and then shot into town in between ballet lessons to buy some more leeks (I had dug up all the pathetic attempts we have grown in the garden, and I didn't have enough for the weekend).

I rushed back home shoved the leeks on, only to discover that Spouse had bought some too. Blimey I could have magical leek soup forever at this rate. He snorted in disbelief when he saw me eating the bowl of leeks I had prepared earlier, while the rest of the family feasted on white bread (very very bad for GI, I pointed out smugly), ham and salad. By this time I was feeling a bit peculiar. I wasn't sure if it was by dint of the leeks, my lack of sleep on Friday night, or the fact that I had a stinking cold. But refreshed, invigorated I certainly didn't feel. Rather the opposite in fact. By the middle of Saturday afternoon I cracked and ate a couple of slices of rye bread (Good GI, so that felt like I wasn't cheating too much), but managed to stagger through the rest of the day on leeks alone.

By Sunday morning the thought of leeks for breakfast was certainly beginning to pall. So I stayed in bed rather then have breakfast. That worked.

I had to get up sometime, though, so got downstairs to discover children in reasonable state of pandemonium. No one had had breakfast, and only two out of four were dressed. Spouse meanwhile was at the gym, and when he returned feasted on yet more lovely, gorgeous, crusty looking white bread, which was starting to call me siren-like. Hell, I hadn't been at this fasting business for twenty four hours and I'm hallucinating about bread. I am so not cut out for dieting. I don't possess the No I Can't Have That Gene, and I'm definitely not a French woman (in size or thought...)

I managed to get to about 2pm and then cracked. We'd run out of rye bread, so the white it was, which probably negated all the effect of my previous starvation. By 4pm I was thoroughly sick of leek water, and had a cup of tea when my mil arrived. Meanwhile I was preparing a lamb roast, and baking goodies for the children for the week, in attempt to prove to myself I am not a slave to food. I must have been a masochist in a former life...

My French friend advocates a small piece of meat and two veg for dinner that evening -never had food tasted so delicious. She also claims we often eat when we are thirsty so suggests drinking water when you think you're hungry. That didn't work at all for me, by bedtime I was ravenous. But at least I've sort of detoxed.

Today was meant to be a day of restraint, and of learning to banish my key offenders. But it was also the day I was planning to go the London Book Fair, where it is damn nigh impossible to eat healthily. However as we were late getting up and no4 wasn't well, I was running around headless chicken like till Spouse took the three eldest off in the car. So breakfast consisted of a slice of toast. So far, so good.

Mil had kindly offered to have the poorly one, but two minutes before I was to drop her off, I managed to knock a perfume bottle on to her finger, giving her a nasty bruise and blood blister under the nail. Feeling really heartless, I took my sobbing child to my mother in law's somewhat later then intended. Shades of my last bad mother moment when I went up to London for the evening only to end up in Casualty with a very wheezy baby, sprang to mind, but I had appointments to keep and Dammit! I only get out about once a year. So I went and when I rang later she seemed fine... Guilt assuaged for now...

The Book Fair was slightly surreal as it was combined with a Beautician's Conference. It was easy to spot the difference. Publishers marched around, wearing black or beige, carrying coffee, lugging briefcases and looking Self Important, whereas, beauticians had an average age of 17, wore crop tops, tracksuits and trainers, and sported unseasonably (and in most cases, unreasonably, considering the size of them - why am I worried about my weight?) large amounts of midriff.

Excel where LBF now finds its home evidently couldn't cope with this influx of people so at lunchtime a friend and I hunted in vain for anything to eat. Oh well, I thought perhaps I'll skip lunch (something not recommended by our French friend). However, when I nearly fainted through lack of food, I decided perhaps I had better eat something and managed to grab a houmous wrap from a shop with a marginally smaller queue. So, healthy eating was still on the up. I had failed dismally on the drinking front though, as I was two cups of coffee worse off then normal, and hadn't drunk the requisite amount of water. And by three o'clock, I was absolutely starving, which is why I succumbed and bought the kitkat which was crying out for my attention. (This is getting serious, now kitkats are talking to me....)

After my meetings were over I headed off home and spent an hour or so picking up offspring. No3, conveniently was brought home, but when I went to pick up no 4 from mil's she not so conveniently had gone to sleep. So I went to get the two biggest from their best friends' house, from whence I emerged half an hour later having promised no 2 and her best friend that when they have completed their bestselling book, I will send it to all my publishing mates... they will be so grateful.

Then it was back to mil's to pick up a rather sleepy and damp no 4, whose finger was still throbbing and looking worse then ever (Oh Guilt, thy name is Mother!). No3 hadn't eaten, so I shoved some food down her neck, while Spouse who had just got back transported grobags into the garden (it being nearly Spring we are in the process of getting our own crops going). And then I chased them all into bed. I haven't had anything to eat yet, but I know one thing for sure. French women might be thin, but I am never going to lose weight while I stay at home. Today (barring my failure with the kitkat) I hardly ate a thing. If I went out to work I reckon my stubborn stone would be gone in a month. But on the other hand, I also reckon what is left of my sanity would be out of the window. I have enough chaos in my life without having to pick up all the pieces at the end of a working day.

I just have to face it, magical leek soup nothwishtanding, that extra stone is here to stay...

Horrid Half Term Torture

A propos of my last posting about Half Term Hell, I thought I had to pass on this poem which my nine year old presented me with the other day. Such insight in one so young...

Needless to say, my half term has been somewhat better then this...

Day 1 they lost the hamster.
We looked everywhere.
But I know it didn't vanish
Into thin air.

Day 2 they broke the telly
And lost the baby's shoes.
Then they ripped Dad's ticket
For an ocean cruise.

Day 3 we went to the cinema.
I got absolutely soaked.
'Cos my nine year old son
Splattered me with coke.

Day 4 it was my birthday.
It was a rubbish day.
They gave me a present -
Of horse manure! Hooray!
(Not)

Day 5 they smashed the laptop
And ripped my favourite book.
They ransacked my bedroom,
My jewels is what they took.

Day 6 we fixed the TV,
But Suzie smashed it up again.
Then Jimmy broke Granny's vase
While playing in his den.

Day 7, grande finale,
They broke the window pane.
I'd just got a new laptop,
But they smashed it up again.

Now the holidays are over.
I thought it would never end.
Those pesky little children,
Drive me round the bend!

All Lurved Up...

Being as I have spent the last eight years attempting to become a romantic novelist (current wip, entitled Allotted Time, only two years in the making. My poor hero has been standing in his hallway confronting his ex since well before Christmas. It is about time I rescued him...), I really can't let the most romantic day of the year pass without comment.

I should mention here that I am married to the most unromantic man in the universe. Here is a man who regularly tells me buying flowers is a waste of money (He is totally immune to my cries of But that's not the point...), and once made me a heart out of dental alginate material. It took him years to remember whether my birthday was in June or July, he regularly provides Christmas and birthday presents late, and one year when he realised that he had forgotten my birthday (again) made me a card out of two bits of wood hinged together. Inside it bore the immortal words, Happy Birthday, you old bat. He also despises Valentine's Day as a purely commercial venture designed to lighten his purse and make money for the card and flower industries. So romantic he definitely is not.

The flowers things is partly my own fault. I read in a book somewhere that men start buying their wives flowers out of guilt when they are having affairs, and made the mistake of telling him... I know, I know. But look, I was very young at the time, and it never dawned on me that I would pay for that remark for the rest of my natural born days.

Still, he has improved of late, managing to whisk me off to Venice for my 40th last year (so all those years when I kept on about how much I would love to go there, he was paying attention), and I nowadays generally get birthday and Christmas presents on time. (It helps, I find that he has a nine and a seven year old to give him advice about what Mummy might like). And once or twice I have even had flowers.

But leopards don't change their spots, and quite frankly I wasn't expecting a great deal out of Valentine's Day. Although having been sent out on Sunday (Sunday???) to the local Sex Emporium that graces our shopping centre, to buy his Valentine's present, it was quite clear what he did have in mind.

Apart from having to take a deep breath when going into a shop which advertises that a girl's best friend is her Rampant Rabbit, I actually find going into these places hilarious. Once I get over my natural I-am-a-mother-and-therefore-a-frump tendencies, I can even have a laugh with the girls behind the counter who are all very helpful and are so much younger then me, they think working here is normal. Me, I can't help wondering everytime I go into shops like this what on earth the marketing meetings are like. They must be a hoot.

I always feel slightly panicstricken by the sight of all the more - ahem - novel items on display, so take refuge in looking at the bras, as even frumpy mums need them. And being as I am now the rather unhelpful size of 38B, I tend to look these days now more in hope then expectation. Once upon a time I was a rather more normal 34B, but that was pre-children and now I have ended up in a strange hinterland as far as bras go, and find it nigh on impossible to get them anywhere. So finding not just one, but to my amazement, three bras that fitted meant I was of course obliged to buy them all. Lord alone knows when such manna will come my way again.This cut into my present buying budget rather. But as I already have a wide selection of French lacey stuff with which to delight my other half (why is it always French lace? I suppose Nottingham lace, just doesn't have quite the same ring to it...), I opted to go for something a little more sensual instead. The only trouble is, the panic started setting in again, and I was seduced into a last-minute- grab-and-leg-it buy.

Which is how I came to leave the shop clutching a bag containing two big shiny boxes from the appropriately titled Sin range. One was meant to spice up your love life with the sensuous smell of rose petals, delicately scattered on the bed (I've always wanted to do that, but being of a practical nature, can't help thinking about the mess, and clearing up), while the other was to get you going with smellies and candles in the bathroom. All of which I hoped would help me rustle up what is left of my libido (precious little after four children I can tell you), and at the very least bring a smile to Spouse's face...


As this is half term, all the children were at home come the big day. No 1 has inconveniently sprained her ankle, so we have been stuck in doors all week. Talk about cabin fever... In between bouts of fighting and watching too much tv, I have been getting rather desperate to say the least. Yesterday, however, lurve was in the air and the children decided that it being Valentine's Day they all ought to be nice to each other. So, they spent most of the day making each other cards, and when they had got bored of that, making them for me and Spouse.

No 2 being the most touchy feely of our children was the worst culprit. She started by bringing me a card addressed to: Mum and Dad and loving sisters, (I don't know about loving sisters, most of the time they want to kill each other). Inside it proclaimed that Love is in the air. Where does she get this stuff from? It's not like we encourage her... By the end of the day she was maniacally cutting out hearts and leaving them all over the shop. Spouse got one in the entry to our bedroom, and I got one in the study. Thanks to all their efforts, my eventual haul for the day was about a dozen hearts, and seven cards. Somewhat better then normal then, and just what I would have been after as a teenager. Oh well...

Just before Spouse came home I was explaining to no 1 that he isn't very romantic, while making him prawn cocktail. Why are you doing that? She wanted to know. Because we're not going out, I said. I think it is slowly dawning on her that her parents actually have a life of their own that doesn't include her. But I suspect she also doesn't want to think about it too deeply. It's been enough of a shock to her to work out where babies come from. She probably doesn't need the added horror of thinking that her parents actually did that. Or still do for that matter...

My idea had been to get the sprogs into bed early and have a romantic tete a tete, over a lovingly cooked meal. But it being the holidays, I was later getting them to bed then intended. Plus our enforced stay indoors has meant everyone had far too much energy. So I was still settling the little ones down at 8pm, no 2 had only just got out of the bath, and no 1 wasn't even in yet. I chased her up to bed and then toyed with the idea of getting all Togged Up For Him. However, by now it was nearly nine o'clock, I hadn't finished cooking and I knew that no 1 would no doubt be in my bedroom at any minute to dry her hair. Having once had to hide under the bed from no 2 while in the middle of putting some sexy underwear on, I didn't fancy a repeat performance.

So I didn't bother with the Togging Up (is there any point putting things on to take them off, I wonder? Mr Maniac Mum, he say, yes), but did cook the meal. And a bottle of red wine later, it was time to try out the shiny new boxes from the Sex Emporium.

Oh how I wuz robbed, dear Reader... The petals were plastic and didn't smell remotely roselike. And there was a rather small bottle of some kind of massage oil, which pro rata probably costs about £100 a gram, whilst the candle set was just that. A couple of candles and some bubble bath which produced the most minimal bubbles I've ever seen.

Which goes to show you shouldn't be seduced by nice shiny boxes. Particularly when you're in a shop where you'd be embarrassed to meet your mother, so a tendency to impulse purchases runs high.

I'm beginning to see Spouse's point. Valentine's Day is a purely commercial enterprise for the card industry, and increasingly for Sex Emporiums.

OTOH, candles, baths. They kind of work for me...

PS. I did get: one red rose, Pride and Prejudice DVD and the Kate Mosse book. So the boy done good, in the end...

Changing Rooms

I have no idea at all if anyone is out there in cyberspace reading the witterings of an insane mother, but if you are, many apologies for the long delay since my last blog. Blame a rather too large dose of real life, namely a book I have been editing which has kept me busy since Christmas (about which more later) combined with a more then average busy spell in our house at the weekends, and an office move...

...So, while some weeks ago I was going to blog about the travails of my recalcritant car breaking down on my friend's driveway on the way to school, I have now decided the moment is past, but there is still time enough to tell you about our recent changing rooms experience.

Being as we have four children we need rather a lot more room then most. Our current house had four bedrooms when we moved into it when no 1 was on the way. Over the course of time, and with the arrival of the subsequent offspring we have acquired an extra bedroom, but due to the nature of the house it came in the shape of two railway carriage rooms next to each other. When we first had these rooms the two little ones shared one room with a small bed and a cot, while the big ones were in a bunk bed in the other, and we had two spare bedrooms. Eventually, no 1 moved into the box room at the front, no3 into the bottom bunk and no4 had the other bedroom all to herself.

Such is the shifting nature of children's needs, no4 has of late taken to being rather fed up with this arrangement, and a) either gets scared or b) annoys everyone else and keeps them awake. Nos 1&2 seem incapable of sleeping alone so nine times out of ten no 2 creeps out of her bed and into no 1's. This used to work when no3 went to sleep and didn't realise, but of late she has twigged that her big sis deserts her after dark and has been making rather a fuss about it.

So the time had come, I felt to shift things around. However, we had decided that no 1 needed a high sleeper and therefore have spent some fruitless months looking for one (fruitless as the height of most of them is still too low for our requirements, though I am indebted to the person who posted a message on this blog directing me to various websites.), and have therefore remained in a state of limbo for some time. However, one night recently after some meaningless debacle in which nos 3&4 were kicking up stink about some supposed extra benefit the big ones were having, whilst no 1 was weeping in her room that life was so unfair, and no2 as usual was accusing me of ruining her life (god knows what she'll have to complain about when she's a teenager...), in a fit of desperation I promised them a change of scenery. What was I thinking...?

I tell Spouse of this foolish plan, which is enough for him to go haring off to Ikea on Saturday morning while I do the ballet run - he is nothing if not impetuous.

Meanwhile I end up taking four children first to no 2's Holy Joe classes, before braving the horror that is the Fame School. However, no 2 preferring not unnaturally to watch Dick and Dom in Da Bloody Bungalow is pretty pissed off with this arrangement and promptly turns into Devil Child. This is quite appropriate as she is shortly to make her First Confession (or Reconciliation as they call it in these PC days) - at least she now has something to confess. So she screams and sobs and wails at the unfairness of it all. By the time we arrive (late) she is sulking in the moodiest manner imaginable. I actually have to physically carry her to the Church door (and at seven she isn't desperately light), where the very kind but rather misguided people who run the classes offer her such delights as going to sit in the church and light a candle, or praying quietly to Jesus in a corner. Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear. I don't think so....

By this time it is about ten to ten - no 4 should have been in ballet ten minutes ago. So I foolishly promise no 2 that I will come back and check she is ok - I can't believe I'm doing it, it's the sort of deal I make with the three year old, but needs must and all that. Sweating profusely I make it back to ballet at ten to discover that thanks to no 2's appalling behaviour, I was so distracted, we have left the ballet bag behind. Luckily no 4 is wearing her dress under clothes, so she can pass that on to no 3 at the end of the lesson, but no one has any socks or shoes. I debate going home but realise that I have run out of time, to do either that or get back to church to check on no 2's progress. When my superorganised lifesaving friend arrives to take her daughter to ballet she nobly agrees to look after all my offspring while I check on the Devil Child. I get back to church and of course she is fine, but they let her go home with me early. And all I can say is they must have been drumming in the saying sorry bit good and hard today, as she is suitably repentant...

...Then it's back home to have a spot of lunch before heading back again with nos 1&2 for their ballet/gym classes. I get back to discover Spouse in the process of putting the bed together. It's high - very high. I try not to have too many palpitations about the thought of no1 breaking her neck, but given my propensity for imagining the worst, this is a nigh on impossibility. Worrying is what I do best, so I'd better live with it...

The good news is the bed liberates oodles of space in the bedroom, and we can put my old desk in there. The bad news is I now have to rearrange three bedrooms. So while Spouse tries to put the bed together with a friend whose children have come round to play, I move clothes around the house in rotation. This being Ikea furniture, nothing is straightforward as the boys suddenly discover when they realise they have put the bed together the wrong way. Much cursing ensues, but in the end the bed goes up, the boys hive off down the road to indulge in a spot of hovercraft building, while I hoover everywhere. In a moment of madness when Spouse is out, I decide I will have a go at moving the desk, which proves easier said then done. I manage (just) not to push it down the stairs, but when I get it into the bedroom, I discover the side has collapsed. I have now created further dust and dirt, so have to hoover the room all over again...

Meanwhile the children are rampaging about the house, and as is their wont, every toy from every room gets removed played with, discarded and left somewhere it shouldn't be. As usual I have the screaming abdabs about this, for all the good it does me. As no one ever takes a blind bit of notice...

By the time Spouse is back, I have decided that the desk actually fits better under the bed, and rearrange things accordingly. I then go into tackle the little ones' bedroom. In the process of the move, I have accquired an extra set of shelves, which is probably just as well as no4 is still at that stage in childhood where she seems to have amassed an obscenely large numbers of toys, most of which she never plays with, but if you tried to lose them she would scream blue murder.

In order to put things on the shelves, I have to sort out what is already there, as of course nothing is where it should be. Most of no 2's possessions have fallen down the side of the bed, and no 3 obligingly hoiks things out for me, but soon the floor is covered in bits of paper (too, too important apparently to bin), books, doll's clothes, bits of puzzles, Bratz dolls' feet - you name it there' s enough to start a toy shop here, if only I could put the right bits and pieces together...

By now it is gone eight o'clock, and I am seriously doubting that any of the children will get to bed tonight. I consider putting them in the spare room, but as this is where Spouse has been dumping the rubbish from the new bed, this is a bit of an impossibility. So instead I clean up as manically as possible, while Spouse sorts no 1's mattress and duvet out (getting a mattress on a high sleeper, requires the ingenuity of an Einstein, but between us we managed it). Meanwhile he starts dumping everything from no1's old room into the new room. And by dumping I mean dumping... trouble is he's seen the floor in the other room, so is taking heed, what he's not worked out is that I am actually putting things back on shelves...

By nine, the rooms are just about liveable in, though you still can't see the floor of no 1's room. "Time for bed," we say firmly, and are met with a chorus of protests. "But I don't likeitwantitimscaredinmynewroomthebedstoohigh..."

Whose idea was this again?

Christmas is Coming, The Goose is Getting Fat...

I'm fed up with Christmas already. So far we've had two Christmas Fairs and two nativities.

Actually I use the word nativity advisedly. The first one was Jack and Jill Go to Look for Jesus and Meet Nursery Characters (Why does that remind me of Terry Wogan's Janet and John sketches? ) en route, so it had precious all to do with the Christmas story. When Mary did pitch up at the end, she looked mightily pissed off and sucked her thumb. The second one yesterday was loosely based on The Night Before Christmas, but as all the children chosen to read parts of the poem spoke incredibly softly, I was hard pushed to tell what was going on. Jaded, qui moi?

For the first two performances I was required to make a star and a snowflake. Making costumes just isn't my thing (along with cutting and sticking it is total anathema to me. Lest you think I fall totally down in devoted Mummy stakes, I would add that I do a mean line in baking... well sometimes.)

Tomorrow nos 1&2 are taking part in the Brownie Christmas Play at the United Reformed Church on Sunday, for which I had to produce two angel costumes. Being as we have already done the Christingle at the CofE church and no2 has to go the catholic church for her holy Joe classes we must be the most ecumenical family around these parts...

By Wednesday when I embarked on the angel costumes I was feeling mighty pissed off with the whole thing. Such feelings were compounded by no 2 coming back from Brownies and telling me my efforts were rubbish.

Indeed they were rubbish. I am crap at sewing. And trying to twine tinsel round bits of vaguely wingshaped garden wire had proved pretty much beyond me. However, at least I had tried. And given that the costume is going to be seen for oooh, about thirty seconds probably, frankly I didn't give a damn, and said so, the which response sent no 2 off in floods of tears. Good going, Mummy. (More and more I resemble the old hag who runs the orphanage in Annie, shouts at the children all the time and sings mournfully of wishing she were surrounded by pearls and instead being surrounded by little girls... I so know how she feels.)

Luckily, Daddy rode to the rescue. And being as he is much better at this sort of thing then I am, and actually seems to enjoy it, I left them to it. Which is just as well as now their angel costumes will look somewhat superior instead of rather crap...

Next week we have a carol concert to attend, and on Friday they break up from school. I have a whole week BEFORE Christmas and I will be all Christmassed out. Plus them being off so soon means I can't get any shopping done. And I have barely made a dent in it is far.

However, since the year no 4 ended up in hospital just before Christmas, I refuse point blank to get excited about Christmas shopping. So long as you get something to put in their stocking it really doesn't matter all that much. Besides, I tend to think in a lofty, holier then thou, superior kind of way, They have far too much stuff as it is. It will be good for their souls to get less this year.

Of course, the reality is that come the end of next week I will be panicking. And thereafter indulge in what I like to call bulimic shopping. An inevitable byproduct of parenthood.

You rush out with no time to spare, and see lots of lovely shiny things, all of which look like a Must Have item. So you compulsively and greedily grab stuff off the shelves, conscious all the time of a ticking clock. Your heart is racing, you feel sick to the pit of your stomach, as you fear, somewhere out there, there ARE BETTER THINGS YOU COULD BE BUYING - only you don't have time to look. Such fears are allayed in the moment of purchase - a quick fix equal to any sugar rush. You get home and shove everything in a cupboard so no one sees it, only getting it out on Christmas Eve (when, if like me, you start your wrapping at about midnight). It is only then, that you realise that what you have bought is utter rubbish, and if only you had stayed that extra five minutes you could have bought the perfect present.

Oh well there's always next year...

Mince pie anyone??

And When she Got There, the Cupboard was Bare

As usual, we had a busy weekend. Starting with the anticipated and long awaited arrival of plasterers to plaster our new conservatory. I use the word new advisedly. As come January it will have been in place two years. But before we could plaster we had to lay floorboards (actually that was done fairly quickly) and then we had to get some doors made. Being as we wanted wooden doors, and being as the aperture is enormous, we had to wait over a year for said doors because of lack of money, time and being able to find someone to do it. Eventually we got the doors in this summer, and then the plastering became a matter of some urgency, as without it we can't have heating in there, and it being now winter, the place gets rather parky...

The plasterers were due to arrive at 7.45 which I'm sure you'll agree is an ungodly hour even for parents of four (seeing as we have now educated our offspring to go downstairs and make themselves breakfast we do occasionally get a bit of extra shuteye at the weekend). So Spouse dutifully got up at 7.30 to let them in. But whereas pyromaniac builder mate (who has built so much of our house and garden he takes a proprietorial interest in things) pitched up to make sure the plasterers knew what they were doing, plasterers came there none.

So I trotted off to do the ballet run with all the sprogs in tow (older two moaning wildly as they got to miss Dick and Dom in Da Bungalow - the one result of me having to take them out) while Spouse and PBM made their third cup of tea and waited...

...and waited...

and waited...


While no 3 was in her lesson Spouse rang up to say that the plasterers had done a no show, so he agreed to come and meet me . This created a conflict of emotions. While I was mightily pissed off with the plasterers, I was also damned glad to have an extra pair of hands to help separate my warring offspring (ten minutes in the Fame School is usually enough to send them demented).

As I had thought I was out for the duration with the children, I had promised them a visit to Father Christmas in our local Lifestyle Centre (no I don't know what that is either, but it comprises a library, a gym, a doctor's surgery and a cafe, with shops underneath and flats above). Santa duly visited, it was a quick trip to Macs for a nutritional lunch (which was just as well as we had no food to speak of at home) before taking no 2 to her gym class and no 1 to her jazz dance class.

Spouse took the little ones home and I managed to get in a bit of Christmas shopping. Although we are now in December Christmas hasn't quite penetrated my radar yet, and I realise that it should, it really should as the kids have a WHOLE WEEK off before Christmas, so shopping opportunities are going to be severely limited from now on...

Then it was back home and out again to no 4's Christmas Fair. Part of me fights with the idea of spending any money at her school as it is a private one and her nursery fees cost me a fortune. But on the other hand, it was quite nice to go along to one of these things not being involved at all, other then to part with some money. The children managed to liberate the contents of my purse within minutes as they all wanted to buy tat for each other for Christmas. And this being a private school , the quality of tat was rather more pricey then I'm used to from the fair at their school... I did manage to get some half price cakes though, which was handy as the cupboard being bare meant I had nothing for pudding. It was a scrabble to find something for tea, but Spouse managed to knock up ham sandwiches and some rather limp looking cucumber.

By this time it was too late to get to Sainsbury's so I was on the verge of suggesting we got a takeaway, when we had a phone call from our best friends, they were at a loose end, could they come over? Since said best friends have recently come back from Spain after an absence of three years, so we are still pretty excited about seeing them, so of course we said yes. Come and eat, I said recklessly, before adding, sorry the place is a bit of a mess... (Needless to say my work of the previous weekend had been swiftly undone and the place was a pigsty once again). Deciding that tolerant and all as they are even they might balk at the chaos, we swiftly charged round getting the sprogs to put their tat away.

Then we had a moment when we considered what to eat. Spouse disappeared to the deep freeze and came back with some steaks and prawns. I rummaged about in the fridge and came up with four mushrooms, a pepper, some spinach and an onion. I knew we had rice, so we could just about manage a stirfry. It's what you call Make It Up As You Go Along Cooking. Luckily our friends didn't seem to mind (the bucketloads of red wine probably helped) and we stayed up way too late chewing the fat.

Net result was Sunday morning produced the hangover from hell. I had to get up and take no1 to a birthday party, which meant rising far too early in the pitiful state I was in. After managing to dig out enough toast to feed if not an army, at least all of our guests, they departed and I contemplated making lunch. With - er - what? We were far too exhausted to even contemplate supermarket shopping, so this time, I persuaded everyone to have soup and bread, which seemed to do the trick. But what to do for dinner? Normally we have a roast and Spouse, (whose German mother has left him with a paranoia about not having enough food in the house) usually stocks the freezer with dozens of the damned things, but inconveniently we seem to have eaten them all. I do manage to rustle up some lamb chops though. And we have a few carrots, plus some potatoes and frozen peas. That'll do.

Before feeding the mob though, we have to go to the Christingle service. Being (as Spouse prosaically puts it) a left footer, I hadn't come across this particular tradition in my childhood, but then Spouse who is a Proddy Dog, hasn't either. Anyway for the uninitiated, the service revolves around getting an orange, with four cocktail sticks in which sweets and raisins are placed. Needless to say it is rather a popular event in our house. Mercenary? My children? As far as I understand it, the orange represents the world, the sticks the four seasons, the sweets, the harvest and a red ribbon around it, Christ's blood. Oh and you also get a candle which is the light of Christ. Amazingly in these child-cosseted times we actually got to light the candles in church (albeit with stern warnings about safety and wild disclaimers everywhere).

Once the service was over (at which the offspring behaved soooo badly they were threatened with deportation without getting their Christingles) it was back home to have tea and get them into bed at a vaguely reasonable hour. It was only once they were in bed, it suddenly dawned on me that I had sandwiches to make in the morning and precious little to put in them. Luckily, we had one loaf of bread left, so even if they had bread and butter sandwiches, at least it was something. However, they normally get some fruit, yoghurts and pork pie. And I had nothing at all left. They were going to be ravenous. For a moment I contemplated throwing myself on the mercy of the schools and pretending that I had forgotten all their lunches, but then Spouse came up with a good wheeze. Now that the sweets were eaten, I could chop up the oranges for them. I then discovered I had a big bag of raisins ready for Christmas pudding making, and Spouse found four dairylea cheeses hiding at the back of the fridge. So at least the children wouldn't go hungry.

... but in the event of a nuclear holocaust, we probably would be...

How Clean is my House?

Going to dinner with friends on Saturday night, who probably have the tidiest and cleanest house in the known universe (they are the only people I know who seem to live completely clutter-free), had the effect of making me look at my own, less then perfect abode through mud-tinted spectacles.

My house varies from being vaguely tidy to a total pit. It is very rare that I manage to clean properly anywhere - apart from the bathrooms about which I am fastidious. Sadly my spouse isn't. So I have spent most of my married life cleaning the bath after he has been in it, because apparently the effort of running a shower round a bath after it has emptied is too much to manage in the morning. As he is big on ergonomics, I have tried to explain that if everyone who uses the bath cleans as they go, when I come to clean it properly it isn't such hard work. But I explain in vain. Apparently two minutes to clean the bath in the morning will definitely result in being late for work, and I wouldn't want to be responsible for that. I did once try to leave our bath and use the kids' one instead, in the vain hope that he would get fed up of the dirt and take some action. But do you know what? He didn't even notice. And I, sad git that I am ended up cleaning it because I couldn't stand it any longer.

To be fair to him, while cleanliness might not be his thing, he is much tidier then I am, and does a fairly decent job of tidying up after the sprogs. Which of course is the main problem with my vision of having a clean abode. Our friends have one child, aged nine, who like her father is dementedly tidy. We have four. And not one of them possesses the tidy gene.
However, in an insane fit of Keeping up with the Jones', I decided that I would have a go at spring cleaning (yes, I do realise it is the wrong time of year, but as I didn't actually do any such activities in the spring, I have some catching up to do).

I started in the kids' bathroom, where, not content with a good scrub of the bath, sink and loo, I also cleaned windows and wiped surfaces. By the time I had finished, it was sparkling - and here I have to make a BIG confession, I actually get quite a buzz out of cleaning. It makes me feel better about the world, but like a chocolate fix it is - oh so temporary. Particularly in this house...

On a roll now, I decided to tackle no 4's bedroom. This was a brave move, as no 4 has spent the last few months showing her creativity by liberally decorating her walls with crayon. It took me about half an hour to pick away at the red crayon on the front of the door, and another half an hour to tackle the back. I then emptied both her toy boxes, removed all the detritus from under the bed, and cleaned the skirting boards. It took me ages, but eventually, toys were vaguely replacd where they should go (it frustrates my anal inner soul not to put everything in its proper place, but hell, I only have one life, and the little buggers will have messed up my good work before I can blink, so there really is No Point).

After that I started on nos 2&3 - who share a bedroom. I have to say I entered it with a fair amount of trepidation. It has been my aim all term to get in there and Do It Properly, but helas, I keep running out of time, so just shove toys back willynilly in the toybox, throw books back on shelves, and whizz the hoover around a bit. I haven't looked under their bunk bed for months... This is a very bad move as it happens, because under the bunk bed is obviously the only place to drop clothes, books, feet from your Bratz dolls, old stickers, torn up bits of paper, and the odd biscuit (from the rare occasion months ago when I ill advisedly let them eat something in bed). It reminds me of a title of a book I once edited, It Came From Beneath the Sink... and yes it's very very nasty...

At the point at which I was beginning to lose heart with this project, Spouse reminded me that it was time the sprogs were fed. And thereafter house cleaning duties had to be put to one side, as I was taking the little ones to the school Christmas Fair, while he was taking the big ones to Harry Potter (I got the long straw, evidently...)

So I took a well earned break from my activities, and instead endured the horror that is the Christmas Fair. Given this is my sixth year in attendance, to say I am somewhat jaded is to put it mildly. At least it is easier now then in the days when I had small babies, plus after many years of having MUG printed on my face I have finally mastered the art of saying NO. So though I had offered to help on a stall, it was only the one stint(last year having two at the school meant I spent some time as an elf at Santa's Grotto plus a stretch selling some old tat on another stall). Sprogs came with me and managed to fleece me of nearly all the money I had bought as our class had the pocket money stall, full of nice bright shiny things... And you have to do something to do distract the little darlings...

Duty done, we had a quick visit to Father Christmas, a rather slower visit to the face painting table, and then I was able to escape back home, to the joys of cooking the Sunday roast, followed by a revival of my cleaning campaign.

"Mummy, that was fabulous," said no 3 clutching her favourite new treasure, a ghastly make-up collection (I am sooo going to regret that). Oh to be five and so easily pleased....

Once the dinner was on, I left the sprogs watching Annie, and returned to face the horrors that were lurking under the bed. Spouse came in half an hour later and stood thunderstruck in the doorway, "It's worse then ever," he said. Er - yes. But part of the joy of clearing up is going through that painful middle bit when everything is out, before you can attempt to put it away again. Like Macbeth, I was in so deep, it was going to take some doing to get myself out...

Spouse meanwhile manfully went to take charge of the dinner. He even made Yorkshire pudding (and to add insult to injury on this, his virgin attempt, the buggers actually rose. It's taken me years to get beyond biscuits...)

Eventually the deed was done. No 2 &3 also had a pristine bedroom. But I had yet to tackle no1's room, our bedroom, the spare room and our bathroom. And as for downstairs, well don't even go there (I stand an outside chance of getting there before the next millenium).

As a result of my activities, we had dinner an hour later then planned, the kids therefore went to bed too late, and I had ignored all the washing, although Spouse had not. Now here I should state that I am totally grateful to have a man who knows how to work a washing machine, and now he's got the idea of separating whites from coloureds, he is also quite helpful. However, he still hasn't mastered the notion that folding things as they come out of the dryer, saves time later and cuts down on the ironing - why is it that ergonomics don't apply to housework? Anyway, net result is that there is not one, but three baskets overflowing with clean washing, none of it folded, and none of it put away. By bedtime I am so hacked off with housework, I really can't face it, so leave it for the next day, which turns out to be a big mistake, as somewhere hidden deep in the piles lie all the children's uniforms...

The next day I am out, so have no time to finish whatI have so foolishly started. On Tuesday and Wednesday I am busy playing catch up on my freelance work. Tomorrow I have to start the Christmas shopping. By the time I get to tackling the rest of the house, the rooms I've already started will need doing again.

How clean is my house?

Not very...

Author's note
I started this blog, partly as a result of some very generous and supportive friends on an egroup I am on. Sadly, I heard this week, that one of them, Pam Cleaver had died suddenly. Although I never met her, she was kind, considerate and funny. And like most of us in the group, not that big a fan of housework. I would like to dedicate this column to her memory. She will be much missed.

Homework Heaven

Being as Ruth Kelly was splashed all over yesterday's papers talking about homework, I thought I'd give today's blog a bit of a topical bent. Call me old fashioned, but it seems to me that a) encouraging kids from an early age to plunder the internet for any information they need (relevant or not) and b) creating an exam system which allows you to retake again and again till you get the right mark is asking for trouble. And it therefore should come as no surprise to anyone that people - er - cheat. Well, knock me down with a feather. It's sort of instutionalised cheating if you ask me (which you probably didn't). I think all government departments should forthwith be replaced by a mega department, called the Department for Stating the Bleedin' Obvious.

My offspring as yet haven't reached the dizzy heights of GSCE internet cheating (although as we are two years off secondary school, those days will be upon us before I know it), but I have news for Ruth Kelly. It isn't just GCSEs that throw up dodgy results and dubious practices. The rot starts much earlier. In fact I'd say about year 3 in the Juniors is as good a place as any to start...
Homework in primary school is a bit of a mystery to me, as I can't recall ever having any. For a start I am not sure what the benefit of a five year old bringing home their sums is, given that no parent in their right mind will send said five year old back to school with the work done wrong. At present the work my five year old seems to get bears little or no resemblance to anything she has done at school. Viz: this week's homework was to reach the no 45 via different sums using 5, 10, 15 and 20 - apparently you can do this eleven times. To begin with she didn't understand the question (even when I explained it to her) and then she ran out of steam after the fourth permutation. Can't say I blame her really, I was getting rather bored too. We didn't even get on to the next bit which was to do the same for 50. On top of this she also has spellings (fairly simple), to write four sentences about her favourite toy (she can just about do that, but it takes forever), and practise writing the letter i a thousand times. Educational value? Nul points, I'd say, but then I'm not a teacher.

Now here is another oddity about the homework system operating in primary schools. In years 1/2 they seem to get stacks. Years 3/4 very little and now we have reached Year 5 we have to sweat through homework three times a week. It's very trying.

As it happens, no 2 did have a bit of homework this week (her first all term). To design and create a leaflet about insects. I seem to vaguely remember no 1 doing one on spiders when she was in year 3, and it was an epic performance. A true child of her generation, she begged to go on the internet. Why? I said. To find out about spiders, was the reply. Whatever happened to good old books?

I encouraged her instead to get the information she needed from the library, and she did a fantastically detailed and decorated leaflet about tarantulas and wolf spiders. This effort came at huge cost (mainly to my sanity) as no 1 is not only very thorough, but incredibly slow. So she ended up giving the work in late. Meanwhile the rest of the class had got their mums and dads to print off pictures from the internet, and no 1 quickly discovered that Style over Substance is what counts in this brave new Internetted-up world.

This lesson was borne out for her doublefold last year when she had to produce a leaflet on Mexican Animals. Again I banned the internet and we went to the library to find some books. Sadly all the books were out, so much against my better judgement we went online to discover something - anything - about Mexican creatures. We did actually manage to find a decent website, but I gave her strict instructions about rewriting material and not just regurgitating it. This homework was supposed to be done over a period of five weeks. But no 1 being so slow ended up running out of time. So as she came to do her final version, she rushed it and it was scrappy. I gently suggested that she might like to redo it more neatly and was met with floods of tears. Deciding that it simply Wasn't Worth It, I let her finish it and hand it in. At least, she'll get a good mark for effort and detail I thought. Wrong! She got C+-B- because it was untidy. The kids who copied off the internet all got As. Way to go.

This year so far we have had tears nearly every week because of literacy homework, which no1 takes three times as long over as everyone else as a) she is so slow she hasn't finished the work in the classroom so has to catch up at home b) she writes three times as much as everyone else (I was actually told by her teacher that to get the grades she is capable of, she shouldn't write so much - it's so nice to see creativity being encouraged in the school environment) c) as she is lefthanded she struggles to write fast. The net result is that she has been doing her homework and I have (reluctantly) been typing it up as otherwise she'd be up till 10 o clock. She has also learnt that typing things up gets a better response from her teacher. Style Over Substance wins already. And she's only nine.

No2 meanwhile is a different kettle of fish altogether. She is bright and quick and dashes things off in no time. I watched openmouthed as she created a leaflet in the space of ten minutes based on everything she knew about insects. It was scrappy and not very neat, but it did the job, with a fraction of the time spent/pain expended on no 1's efforts. I can forsee that come year 4 and the Mexican animals project, its going to be As all round. She has grasped even quicker then no 1 that Style over Substance is all that matters.

So, Ruth Kelly if you're out there listening. While you're conducting your review of the role of plagiarism at GSCE level, why not take a look at what's going on in primary schools while you're about it. Because that's where it goes tits up. And now that we're going to be ofsteading three year olds, before you know it, they'll be singing Q, W, E, R, T, Y, U, I, O, P instead of A, B, C, D, E, F, G....

Terminal Trouble

I have been terribly quiet this week. Mainly because at last I have my old computer back, so I have been catching up on some workstuff. In theory I work two days a weeks as a freelance editor while sprogs are all at school/nursery. This is a newish arrangement as no4 has been going to nursery for two full days this term. Prior to this I had a wonderful nanny, who could be on hand in the event of puking fests et al. The biggest downside of losing her is that when the children are ill my work days go for a burton. I think so far this term I have lost about ten days to children being sick (inconveniently they tend to take it terms, so whatever bug is going round stays with us for DAYS), one day because of an inset day, a week thanks to half term, and with the collapse of my computer, three weeks of being unable to work at ALL.
It's my own fault really. Our computer is positively ancient by computer standards - it 's six years old and was running onWindows 98. I knew it was in trouble as it was so slow to start up, but being as a) I never have any time to sort stuff like that out and b) Spouse is the most untechie husband in the universe, I just never got round to doing anything about it. So ostrich-like I ignored the terminal decline of my terminal until the fatal day when AOL told me that the version I was running was so outmoded as to be laughable. In fact it was so outmoded they were no longer supporting it, so a spanking new CD for AOL9 was about to arrive in the post.
The CD duly came, I duly loaded it (but the battiness of my machine ensured this operation took several centuries), and hey presto! I was about to leap eons into the future in internet terms. Except that I couldn't. Because the damned thing didn't work. So now I couldn't get any internet access at all.(And as a selfconfessed email junkie this is seriously bad news) Very techie mate came round to play with the machine and pronounced it practically braindead by computer terms. So it was time to stop being an ostrich and face facts. My failing machine needed urgent attention, so it was time for a trip to the computer hospital - a tiny little outfit round the corner, recommended by aforementioned techie mate.
I left the computer with a rather vacant looking girl, who said she would get the computer guru to look at it and he would call me in a couple of days.She seemed so dozy I didn't hold much hope for this, but figured that as it was half term and I wasn't going to get anything done anyway, I could survive for a while.
There followed a deafening silence. As I was busy dealing with German guests I didn't pursue it terribly hard, but did get our new laptop up and running, so I could at least email people to say, sorry I can't do any work for a bit. But when a week had elapsed ( I find weeks elapse with an alarming speed these days, leaving behind a terrifying trail of Things Not Done, on my To Do list), I went into the shop where the guru swore blind that he'd tried to call but couldn't get through.. Call me Cynical Sal, but somehow I didn't believe him...
Anyhow, he then offered me a deal with a brand new Dell, which sounded good to me, till I got home and Spouse told me that it didn't possess nearly enough Gigabytes to be anywhere near useful, and why hadn't I got a proper spec out of him. (Amazing the way his interest in technology rears its head when he thinks his money is being spent unwisely...). Forebearing to say I wouldn't have had a clue what aforesaid spec meant anyway, I went back to plan A. Namely, I wanted my terminally challenged terminal, to be reconfigured, remade, and rebooted till it was slick, sleek and speedy - a thing of joy to behold forever...
Hokey Dokey says my friend. It will be done on Monday.
By now I am two weeks behind on my work. I have people sending plaintive emails asking when they are going to hear from me. And I can't do a thing about it, because I have belatedly realised that my superdooper swanky laptop doesn't have Word on it. So I can't actually do any work at all, even if I had backed up stuff properly. Which ahem, I haven't. I know. I know. This is another feature of my too busy life. It's something I'm always meaning to do... Oh for the joys of office life and techie support..
I do have the most important stuff on disks, but having never been able to get my zip drive to work properly, the majority of my files were worryingly trapped in the motherboard of my sick computer. I had requested three times that everything in My Documents should be transferred to the upgraded machine, but was terrified it would all go. And I am so behind int the technology stakes. I don' t possess a memory stick either (the original machine only having one USB port which I needed for my printer). Which all goes to show that I should have embraced our Throwaway Culture much sooner, but it just goes against the grain to me to get rid of something which is only six years old. I know that makes it practically neanderthal in computer terms, but still....
Anyway it got to Monday and nothing had happened. I rang computer guru, who told me the parts hadn't arrived. Two days later, he was going to start on it tomorrow. Tomorrow arrived (Thursday) and he was still waiting for parts. But it was going to be done on Saturday -honest.
By now I was tearing my hair out - My Computer's At The Menders And I Am So Technically Illiterate I haven't Got Anything Backed Up, starts to wear thin after a while. I already fret about being unemployable - but if I can't even manage to hold onto my freelance stuff then where would I be?(Looking at the prospect of fulltime motherhood and housewifery - a thought too ghastly to contemplate...) I did have a hissy fit at the guru's sidekick, so come Saturday I was actually graced with a phone call to say that his van had broken down on the M1 and he couldn't mend the computer today, but it would be finished by Monday for defiinte.
Monday morning came and I hadn't heard anything, so I rang up and was told it would be ready in the afternoon. Salivating at the prospect, I waited till after I'd picked the sprogs up from school,and then went into the shop to see how he was getting on. It'll ready by the latest in the morning, he says, in tones of a reasonable adult dealing with a fractious child (I know those tones well, I usually employ them on no 2)...
To my surprise it actually was ready the next day. (I had begun to believe I was having some kind of hallucination, that once in the dim and distant past I had had a computer that actually worked...) So in a lather of excitment, I got it home, set it all up, turned it on and got.... lines on the screen. I rang my little friend up, and it turns out our monitor is too old, too small and too damned poxy to cope with Windows XP. My guru mate offered to give me a monitor for a tenner, and that did the trick.
So now I have a spanky new machine, am all interneted up (I even successfully sorted us out with broadband), and have started to play catch up on all the work I've been missing.
The only trouble is. I now have several documents which I created on the laptop, which I need, but can't transfer to thismachine, and I still haven't bought my memory stick yet..
But on the upside, the guru didn't lose anything - at least I don't think he has...

Just When you thought it was safe to go in the toilet...

Well, I spoke too soon...
The upside of the vomiting was that noone apart from no 4 was well enough to attend their various activities, leaving me and Spouse a little time for our own pursuits. He even managed to do some Christmas shopping. Wonders will never cease.
In the afternoon nos 1 &2 had to visit the opticians, and as they felt so much better, we were able to accomplish this with ease. En route we bumped into their best friends, one of whom had also had the tummy bug. Her mother told me it was every half an hour for a whole night. Cripes! I got off lightly. Imagine that times four...
However as Saturday wore on, I was aware of a rather nauseuous sensation growing in my gullet. I tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't go away. So by the time the sprogs were ready for bed, so was I. The best thing, I thought was to sleep it off. At least everyone else was over the tummy bug.
Around midnight, I was awoken from a rather dodgy sleep (the grumbling in my tummy getting louder and louder as the night progressed - while my will NOT to be ill was working overtime to prevent the inevitable), by a yell outside my bedroom.
"I tried to get the toilet," said no2 before promptly throwing up on the landing floor.
I find this whole business quite the worst thing about parenthood. But with a wobbly stomach all of my own, it's the last thing I needed. It was time to call the cavalry, who was sitting downstairs with a pint of beer and a crap DVD. He manfully came up and did noble Clear Up duty, while his feeble wife leant against the wall, before nearly keeling over herself.
I had to sit on the floor with my head in my knees for a bit, still trying to control my relactricant insides But helas, vomit will out, and so I found myself head over the basin, while Spouse liberally applied disinfectant to the whole house.
No 2 who had got rid of all that was troubling her, found the whole thing very amusing. Yes, ha, bloody ha. And settled happily down into a makeshift bed on a mattress in the spare room. As she sleeps on the top bunk, she has been known to liberally cover the walls, floor and underbed drawers before now, so a mattress on the floor seemed infinitely safer.
I meanwhile retired to my bed, from whence I emerged feeling distinctly weak and feeble at around 11 the next day.
I'm still not feeling quite right now. No2 is still off with a tummy ache. And Spouse has also succumbed.
Never mind bird flu. We need a cold snap to stop this bug in its tracks. Otherwise I forsee this merry-go-round of nauseating misery lasting till Christmas...
I'm just waiting for no 4 to start it all off again...

Tears before Bedtime

By yesterday morning it looked as though a vomitfest wasn't in the offing and I really thought we'd Got Away With It. In your dreams, pal...
Viz no 3 woke up, tearful and complaining of stomach ache. As no2 pulls this one on me regularly my modus operandi on these occasions is to send 'em in and see what happens. Cream generally rising to the top and all that. Or in this case, vomit. But we probably don't want to go there...
Anyway, I hardened my heart, and shoved her into school - though not before enduring the wrath of the Obergruppenfuhrer standing guard on the school gates. The rules constantly change as to how the little ones get taken into school and under the current system we drop them at the gate and leave. As no3 was weeping I thought it best to take her right the way into school. I passed two teachers en route who said nothing. But on the way out I was accosted and told that in future I should go via the school office if I was taking her into school, as they don't want strangers wandering the school. Now while I appreciate the desire to keep my children safe and secure, a) I didn't actually enter the school building b) the teacher in the school saw me and c) I have been taking my children to this school for five years. I'm sorry but where has common sense GONE????
No3 thus cruelly despatched, it was off to the hospital for a physio appointment (tendons in my right hand if you're interested), followed by a run home. So Sproglet was probably better off where she was. Besides, most hospitals have enough horrible bugs without me bringing in anymore.
Physio (tendons weak but on the mend) and run (slow but steady - despite completing the marathon earlier this year, my running style is definitely tortoiselike) duly done with, I emerged from the shower to a phone call from school. No 3 was ill, surprise, surprise. So it was back to school to pick her up, and then off to nursery to pick up no4. Sometimes it feels like I never sit down. I wish I could say it had an effect on my waistline, but sadly it doesn't...
Luckily Spouse then pitched up as he had the afternoon off, so he whisked off to get the big ones from school, while the little ones watched TV and I attempted to catch up on some work. As I work from home I generally find that home tends to take over somewhat. So for the last three weeks, with halfterm, inset days, German visitors and general sickness, you could say I have got a bit behind. Factor in a fractious computer which has had to go to the Hospital for Terminally Sick Terminals and you can see I have my work cut out to get back to any semblance of normality. So that being the case, I also ended up taking some stuff with me to the big ones'swimming lessons, leaving Spouse in charge of the little ones, while he attempted to make order out of the chaos that is his filing system. This hasn't been touched for eight months needless to say, and is only being touched now as he needs to sort his stuff out for the tax man. Ostrich? My husband? Never!
All was going swimmingly till the end of the lesson, when no 2 stole the best towel and no 1 burst into tears. I then had a wailing and gnashing of teeth because their teacher had cruelly insisted they practise their crawl (mind you as one who can swim length after length of breastroke but a mere wussy 2 lengths of crawl I can sympathise), and wouldn't be pacified by the notion that practice makes perfect...
Back home it was time for tea, and I was in a hurry as I was out for the evening - excitingly to no4's parent's evening - (yes, I know what can you say about a three year old? But hey, soon they'll be having their own curriculum. The words rats and run spring to mind...) followed by one of those cookery evenings where you end up coming away with all sorts of pricey gizmos you would never normally buy and will certainly never use. It's sort of a posh and expensive form of tupperware parties and so not me. I was only going out of guilt, as I'm always saying no to stuff. Spouse was under strict instructions to be back by 7.30 as the previous night he came in ten minutes after I was due at the grown ups' version of Holy Joe classes (The argument for married priests has never been more compelling - if THEY had children they would never insist!)
So when they sat down I read them the riot act about getting through tea nicely. To which they all surprisingly concurred except no 1, who though normally not of a sensitive disposition has recently taking to having Hormonal Moments (remind me when puberty is again?). Tonight hearing no2 boast about how she could do handstands, sent no1 into paroxysms of grief. "But I ca--an't," she wailed. "And my little sister can. It's sooo embarrassing." I can relate to her grief. Aged 9 I was gawky and awkward in a similar way, and though I eventually got the hang of handstands it was much later. I tried to tell her this to no avail. "But Ihaven't been able to do them forever," she sobbed - forever, representing, well forever to a nine year old. "And everyone else can do them." What everyone? "I can't," chipped in no3. "Yes, but you're only five,"was the scathing reply.
Failing dismally to pacify my oldest I tried the you-may-feel-like-an-ugly-duckling-but-will-grow-into-a-beautiful-swan routine, to even less effect. At a loss I told her that her father was fat and useless till he was about 14 and that at least produced a watery smile. Great, I thought,as I reheated my tea, now Mummy gets to eat...
No chance. The full force of no1's evident misery about all things sporting burst forth in a veritable sea of grief. "AND I can't play tennis. AND I hate the crawl. AND everyone else is better then me..." I abandoned my dinner again and tried to point out that she was good at reading and writing and maths - and she can do sudoku much better then I can. But what's the good of any of that if you can't do handstands? Her siblings by this stage had abandoned the dinner table and were playing some complicated and violent game beneath it. What it is to have parental control...
Eventually I opted for the brisk approach. "It will all be ok in two years time" - in two years time her head will doubtless be full of boys not handstands, but she's not to know that. This seemed to work and I managed to finally eat my tea. (It is a mystery why I'm no thinner), by which time of course I was running incredibly late. So I scooted the littlies off to bed. No 3 had by now gone into a decline and I tucked her up with calpol, a hot water bottle, and a feeling of foreboding.
I dashed downstairs to make some order out of the mayhem the offspring manage go create in the lounge in about two minutes of being in the house, before realising it was twenty to eight and Spouse wasn't back. Fortunately for him, he was spared the meat cleaver as he chose that minute to walk through the door. "But I thought you were going out at 8," he said.
After an exciting evening consisting of five minutes discussing my youngest's achievements so far at nursery - she can hang her coat up and is rather quiet apparently. Both of which sound most unlikely to me - I had the further thrill of attending the cookery class. The people were all very nice but it simply isn't me, and I couldn't wait to escape.
As I came through the door, I could hear the dulcet wailing of no 3.Oh joy. I went upstairs in time to get her to the toilet before she puked everywhere. Result. Normally my children end up chucking up all over their toys. However I had spoken too soon. "I'm not going to be sick," she said turning to face the wall. Want a bet? The next minute the wall and carpet were liberally decorated, with a token effort ending up in the toilet bowl. I can cope with most aspects of motherhood, but vomit isn't one of them. Hold your breath, said Spouse when he came up to help. Yeah, right.
Her next offering at least made it onto the towel I had placed on her pillow. But the pillow and part of the sheet were soaked, so at midnight I was changing beds. And at 6 this morning I was woken to the news that the vicious little bug inhabiting her stomach had made it to the other end. So I changed her and the bed once again, and crawled back into bed with the vain aim of getting a little more shuteye. No chance. Another accident, followed by another puking incident ensured two more changes of clothing/bedding, and Mummy having to call it quits. I went to call the others. Apart from no4 who having recovered from the superbug is now horribly bouncy, the other two got up looking dreadful. They were both complaining of stomach aches and feeling sick. I know when I'm defeated, so told them they could stay in bed.
So apart from no4 who went to nursery this morning, the other three have all been at home, lying limply on the sofa watching videos. The washing machine is doing overtime and I'm wondering who's going to be sick next...
Welcome to my world. Fun isn't it?

Not with a Bang but a Whimper

Saturday being Bonfire Night and my husband being a pyromaniac at heart (I am sure in a former life he was involved in the Gunpowder Plot), we naturally had to have a fireworks party. Spouse having missed out last year because he was busy falling out of boats in the Ganges on a whitewater rafting trip to India. Hmm, being the total wuss I am, which do I prefer - my husband doing dangerous things with water, or dangerous things with fire? Midlife crisis? What midlife crisis?
When he suggested having a party I didn't pay too much attention to the date, and it was only about a week ago I belatedy realised that it coincided with our having visitors from Germany, who were leaving some time on Saturday, plus I had also arranged a family photo session in the afternoon. When I made the arrangement this seemed a sensible idea as we are normally busy with the children's activities in the morning, but now with a party planned this seemed the height of lunacy.
So Saturday went in it's usual chaotic fashion, Viz:
9.30 - I had to get no2 to church for her Holy Joe Classes. As a rather lapsed catholic I am somewhat of a disaster in terms of church going, but it does seem reasonable to show the children what it's all about, hence no2 is now following in her sister's footsteps and learning about Holy Communion. Downside of course is that Mummy gets to go to parent classes in the evenings. I read recently that modern parenting is more stressful then a generation ago. Too bloody right it is. I don't remember my parents having to do anything like this, but oh no, we 21st century mums have to take part in every aspect of the little darlings lives. Brownies? Come and help of an evening. Swimming? Sit for hours by the side of a pool and watch your child's slow progress towards something that eventually resembles breast stroke. School work? What you haven't typed up a three page dissertation for your offspring?Tsk Tsk. Take notes I WILL NOT LET MY CHILDREN DOWN IN FUTURE...Of course we're sodding stressed. Who wouldn't be?
9.45 Is No4's ballet lesson at the local Fame School (alumni of whom are all currently treading the boards in the West End. Their most famous ex-pupil is very famous indeed). Ballet lessons haven't been going well of late, and having spent the last one in the lesson with sprog firmly ensconced on my lap, I was on the point of quitting until today when to my relief I discovered a friend from nursery had started. So miraculously all tears dried up quite quickly and she skipped in.
10.30 Is no 3's turn -except she decided that she was ill and I wimped out of making her go which was quite the wrong decision as when I got home she was jumping around quite happily.
11 - back to church to pick up no2 who has been talking about things she should feel sorry for. Aged 7 she is obviously very sinful. The thing that troubled her most was that she had been boasting about going in the convertible belonging to her best friend's dad.
We then have a brief respite for lunch, and today Spouse also took the German visitors to the station. We felt terrible we couldn't take them to the airport, but they were travelling from Stanstead which is just too far. Luckily they are an independent pair and despite the son being ill they set off quite determinedly.
1pm found us back on the road to take no 2 to gym class. She having decided ballet wasn't her thing, discovered gymnastics watching the Olympics last year. So far she seems much more suited to it then to ballet, so I think we made the right decision...
1.30pm I cross the road with no 1 to take her back to the Fame School, to her jazzdance class which looks so much fun I wish I could do it. But then I wish I could do salsa too, but Spouse won't come with me.
Then it was back home to get everyone changed so we could all look beautiful for the family photo. Which would have been no problem except that no 1 jacked up as she has apparently decided she hates having her photo taken. This was news to me, and turned out to be a total pain, as first off she insisted on having a ridiculous plait which hung limply in front of her face and secondly she refused point blank to smile. The photographer was brill and tried to get her to laugh, but no 1 is nothing if not stubborn. So her attempts NOT to laugh resulted in her resembling a constipated donkey and so the chances of us having a nice family photo are about zero.
Then it was back home to run around like maniacs gettng ready. Spouse bossily took over in thekitchen, which is always bad news, as his methods are somewhat alien to mine. Namely he never cleans up and is busy doing the next thing before he has finished the previous activity. It's not that I'm not grateful, but I must say I was extremely relieved when our pyromaniac builder mate turned up to help him with the bonfire.
Said bonfire went off splendidly - no doubt helped by the rather volatile diesel/petrol mix which the boys liberally sprinkled all over it prior to starting. Said mix was in our garage when we moved in and there is still so much left we will probably be using it on bonfire nights in our dotage. Thankfully Spouse has now seen fit to move it to the bottom of the garden...
Once the conflagraton had died down and the rather splendid guy provided by one of our friends had gone up in smoke, it was time for fireworks. The pyromaniac builder remained behind to guard the flames, while Spouse enlisted the guymaker and our neighbour (otherwise known as his fellow partners in hovercraftmaking crime) to help. So they had a happy time making lots of loud bangs, which the children enjoyed in the main although towards the end they seemed more interested in the sparklers provided by our best friend who did sterling service lighting them as fast as the children had used them up.
As soon as the fireworks were over the children ran riot in the garden and upstairs (I still can't bear to go in the bedrooms), while the adults got quietly sozzled. The last stragglers ended up leaving around 1am, the children's best friends crashing the night (so no 2 got the sleepover she was after,quite by accident), and Spouse and I found ourselves dancing in the kitchen till 2am. Very romantic. What a shame he won't go to salsa...
Naturally yesterday was spent in a state of utter lethargy. I kept looking at the house and thinking it needed attention but failing miserably to do anything about it. The day ended with no 4 who had been moaning about a tummyache throwing up everywhere, though luckily not over sisters who were playing at her feet. I'm not good with vomit at the best of times, but with a hangover??? To paraphrase Hugh Grant, yuckity-yuck, yuck, yuck.
So today instead of working as I had planned, I am nursing a sick child, contemplating the horror that is my house, and wondering when the school is going to ring to say that nos1-3 have submitted to the bug too.
One day when I grow up I really will have a normal life....

Trick or Treat

Just when I thought it was safe not to go back into the water, but at least to be in my house without blowing a gasket, I had possibly the most maniacal-inducing day I have ever had since I first entered the hallowed portals of parenthood all those eons ago. Namely, half term is over, but nos 1 &2 still had an inset day while 3 &4 had to go to school. This caused much wailing and gnashing of teeth from no 3, who was only pacified when told that nos 1&2 would spend the day discovering what Mummy does when they are at school, namely the housework...
My cunning plan went all awry from the off when the big ones preempted me by putting on a new DVD and I was feeling too weak from the stresses of the previous week to argue. I also had the vague notion that it would be easier having them at home then the little ones. How wrong can you be...
I eventually persuaded them to come upstairs and help me put clothes away, and no 2 then excelled herself in the helpful stakes by tidying her room - VOLUNTARILY - good lord. However when no 1 was asked to do the same she "didn't hear" me the first time and then went into a decline when asked again. I found her sobbing by her desk, wailing "Where do I start?" - a feeling I know well - but she being 9 as opposed to a world weary 40 really was out of her depth. I quickly realised that she didn't know how to put right the havoc that had been wrought on her room during half term. I could have insisted, and probably would have except I knew she was right in saying that the others had done most of the damage... and yes, this time it did seem a tad unfair to make her tidy up their mess...
So muggins ended up doing most of the housework while the offspring swanned around like ladies of leisure. It being Halloween, they were of course really keen to go Trick or Treating - the bane of the modern mother's life. Yet ANOTHER (with all due respect to our friends across the pond) crappy American import along with sleepovers and crap cartoons to make your average mum's life even more hellish then it is.
Originally we were going to go with the girls' best friends, but they weren't going out till 7pm, and the little ones' swimming lesson didn't finish till 5pm anyway, which left not much time for eating and getting ready. So I was delighted when BFs' mum rang to suggest she took them all to see The Corpse Bride instead. I explained to the big ones that they would have another treat instead of doing the wretched T&Ting and they seemed happy with that - or so I thought...
...I had of course reckoned without the determination and downright deviousness of no2 (and no, I'm not being unfair here, no 1 rarely if ever instigates this kind of stuff - like her mother she is far too much of a girly wuss and hates getting into trouble of any kind). So there I was, happily sitting in the cafe at the swimming pool, when I get a text message to say I've missed a call. I duly dial it and get nothing but background chatter for several seconds before I can hear the clear tones of no 2 saying "I can't hear anything," followed by my friend saying something along the lines of "Are you sure your mum will let you?" Suspicions duly aroused, I rang back to discover that no2 had decided that she wanted to go trick or treating. Patiently, I explained that she had had a treat and no she wasn't going. "But why?" she wailed. "Because you went to the cinema instead," I repeated. "Oh you are sooo unfair," was the response. "Yup. 'Fraid so." This conversation went on rather fruitlessly for several minutes before I had to tell her that I was putting the phone down (it was all I could do not to cut her off), and coming to get her NOW!
En route to my friend's house the phone rang again. It was no 2 (who I discovered had sneaked into the kitchen and found my mobile number on the notice board), "But please, Mummy." "No." "Plea-ease." "No." "Oh you are the worst mum in the whole world. " Actually I wouldn't wholly disagree with that, as it is what I think most days, but being told it wasn't going to make a jot of a difference. That time I did cut her off, otherwise I might have crashed the car.
When I arrived to pick them up, no 2 flounced off upstairs in a strop. My friend nobly went to try and pacify her, and was met with "I'll only come down if you bribe me." (Jeez, I've spawned a child devil straight from hell - where did she get that from???) My friend suggested crisps/biscuits/chocolate, and was met with obdurate silence until no 2 came up with the idea of a sleepover "But my mum will never let me." (Oh you are sooo right there. I'm not keen on sleepovers at the best of times, but we're heading for Never Again Territory here).
I then went upstairs, and got the same treatment, followed by "And you are so unfair, we haven't seen Wallace &Gromit yet." (this despite two trips to the cinema in less then a week.) I explained between gritted teeth that Daddy wanted to see Wallace & Gromit and that is why we hadn't gone to see it yet, and was on the verge of throttling her, before it suddenly dawned on me that here I had the perfect bribe. "Ok," I said. "I'll bribe you. If you want to see Wallace & Gromit, you have to come downstairs." She appraised me coolly, "That's not a NICE bribe," she said. Too bad. It's the only one you're going to get.
Eventually after much moaning and groaning on the unfairness of life, the universe and maniacal mothers in particular, I got her downstairs and out of the door with the rest of them. As soon as we were through the door no 1 started up on the You Are The Meanest Mum In The World moan and burst into tears, followed by no 2 telling me that I had ruined her life and that I never let them do any fun things. The little ones meanwhile were being absolutely angelic and for the first time EVER I suddenly wished myself back a few years to the days when I had sprogs who might not sleep but at least couldn't answer me back.
At that point the Spouse walked in, and once appraised of the situation gave both children an insightful and clear picture of things, in a way only he knows how. Viz, "Why do you want to go trick or treating anyway? It's like begging." Thank the lord for supportive husbands is all I can say, because after another half an hour of tantrumming, they eventually came and apologised. So we let them have chocolate when their pals turned up to trick or treat, promised them some halloween games at our bonfire party this Sat, and we gave them both a cuddle to let them know they were forgiven.
To make sure no 2 was really allright (despite truly AWFUL behaviour she is a sensitive soul who takes things to heart) I promised I would read her the beginning of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
As I turned out the light, I gave her a kiss, "Have you learned a lesson tonight?" I asked. "Oh yes," she said. "But can I have a sleepover, ple-ease?"
Words fail me...